


Clothes Make The Woman

by helsinkibaby



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Het, Mutual Pining, Romance, longing looks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:10:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: There’s a reason Nick doesn’t wear tuxedos





	Clothes Make The Woman

**Author's Note:**

> Because when the Ellick tumblr fandom ask, I answer!

“Bishop!” 

The word, uttered in what Nick knows is one of the whiniest voices he has ever used in his life, is accompanied by his fist banging on the closed bathroom door. “Are you decent in there?” 

“This is the ladies’ room,” an equally frazzled voice calls back. “What do you want?” 

“I need your help.” He’s whining again and he knows it, he just doesn’t care. “How are you at tying bow ties?” 

Even though the bathroom door, he can hear her chuckle. There’s a smile in her voice as well when she says, “Is that why you didn’t want to wear a tuxedo to McGee’s wedding? You can’t tie a bow tie?” 

Nick glares the offending item in his hand, as if that will help matters. It’s not his fault the team have to go undercover at some ritzy gala where black tie is mandatory. “Tuxedos are old fashioned and ridiculous,” he reaffirms. Then, after a pause, “And also bow ties are really hard to tie.” 

There’s a decidedly inelegant snort from behind the door. “Try curling your hair in a an NCIS bathroom,” she tells him and he grins. 

“I’ll pass.” Slowly he pushes open the door but he figures he’s safe enough - most people have left for the day and if anyone was inside with her, they’d have let him know by now. “Gibbs and McGee went on ahead, I told them that we’d catch up to th-”

His voice trails off as he steps into the bathroom and takes in the sight before him. Ellie is standing in front of one of the sinks, intent on the mirror as she applies some mascara to her eyes. Eyes which he can see are subtly lined with dark eyeliner, that and the eye shadow she’s used making her hazel eyes even more arresting than they usually are. Her lips are a dark shade of red, just begging to be kissed but that’s not what makes Nick’s voice die in his throat. 

It’s not her hair either, which for any complaints she might have, curls in gentle waves around her shoulders and down her back. No, what makes Nick’s eyes grow wide, what renders him speechless is The Dress. 

It’s A Dress that deserves capitals, he thinks, a long column of jade green that clings to Ellie like a second skin. The way she’s leaning over to bring her face closer to the mirror means that he gets a perfect view of how the material stretches over her hips and the curve of her ass, to say nothing of how the rear dips down low, barely skimming the small of her back. What seems like acres of pale skin is exposed to his gaze and his fingers itch to trace the curve of her spine. 

He’s thrown out of his thoughts when she drops the mascara into her makeup bag and turns to look at him. Her eyes travel up and down over his body and for once, he doesn’t preen, doesn’t make some smart comment about how hot he looks. 

He’s not thinking about himself at the moment. 

Ellie’s eyes move up and down again, linger at his neck and his open collar and because he’s looking at her so closely, he doesn’t miss how the tip of her tongue reaches out and touches her upper lip. Just briefly, and then it’s like she remembers she’s wearing lipstick and doesn’t want to wreck it. 

She has no idea how much he wants to wreck her lipstick right now. 

Or, maybe she does, because her smile turns wicked. “Too much?” she asks, doing a slow turn and all he can do is shake his head. He knows he must look dazed, knows he must look like an idiot, but he can’t seem to make his brain shift into gear at all. “Nick Torres, speechless. I never thought I’d see the day.” 

She sashays - it’s really the only word for it - towards him and Nick is sure that his jaw is dangling as limply as the bow tie dangling from his finger. When he finally does speak, he manages to say, “It’s not exactly regulation office wear,” and she chuckles softly as she nods. 

“Thank God. These heels are a killer.” Close up, she’s a little taller than usual so he can easily look into her eyes when she’s standing toe to toe with him. Her fingers brush against his as they close around the bow tie, and they brush against the skin of his neck as she loops the tie around it. 

He shivers, what seems like a thousand goosebumps rippling along his skin. He breathes in deeply, inhales a draught of the perfume she’s obviously just applied and it’s suddenly hard for him to breathe. He blames how tight the bow tie is for that - it’s nothing to do with the way Ellie’s top teeth bite into her upper lip, how her brow furrows in concentration as her hands work. 

“There.” She gives the tie a little waggle to make sure it’s straight, then smoothes her hands along his lapels, flattening them down so that they sit just so. That done, her hands might be expected to drop to her side. She might be expected to step back, away from him. 

She does neither. 

Instead, she holds her ground, holds his gaze and he doesn’t know whether to stare at her eyes or her lips, though he knows, intellectually, that neither place is the safest option. Trying to gain some semblance of control, he takes a deep breath, flexes his hands. 

Which is when he discovers that they’re settled neatly on Ellie’s hips, like they belong there, and he absolutely does not remember putting them there. The material of the dress is soft against his fingers but there’s nothing soft about the look in Ellie’s eyes, the way her pupils dilate and darken. 

Nick Torres is not a man who acts cautiously; in many ways he’s the exact opposite. 

But today, he presses his lips together, before giving into the tiniest bit of temptation and brushing them across her forehead. “We should go.” 

Even to his own ears, his voice sounds rough. Hers is none too steady either when she whispers, “I know.” 

True to form, she’s the one who steps back but he’s standing between her and the door so he’s the one who turns first. “Be careful with your gun,” she says and she sounds a little breathless. “You don’t want it to ruin the line of your suit.” 

So told, he reaches back, adjusts it without turning back to her, so he hears rather than sees her nod of approval. “Much better.” 

They’re walking towards the bullpen together when something occurs to him and he stops dead in his tracks. She takes a couple of steps past him, then turns to look back at him. “You ok?” 

He looks her up and down once, then again. Then one more time to be sure. “Where’s your gun?” he asks because there’s no way she can be carrying her normal sidearm, not with that dress, and there’s not too many places she can put it. 

Her answering grin sends most of his blood rushing southwards. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“Actually, I would!” he calls after her as she walks away and there’s definitely an extra swing in her hips. “Bishop! Bishop!”


End file.
